Ticks

 

Ticks

 

The Cornish summer, lost to me now,

is not without its hazards.

 

Burning deserts lend perspective, however –

 

gazing skywards, wishing for showers,

lamenting drenched shirts

and whatever impulse made me brave the dirt

and dust of the streets of Al Sadd -

 

where, 5 or 6 musicians brood and clutch,

pick up sticks; achieve nothing much -

despoilers.

 

The mind scuttles backwards to a sign I read

many times: ‘Be Tick Aware’ –

on the fenceposts, stiles, kissing gates - there

as I walked along adder paths

leading down to the shade of the river’s trees,

shiver and think of Lyme’s disease.

 

Dogs, too. Embedded blackheads in blotched skin,

part the hair where it’s tunneled in,

recall father lighting matches,

touching cooling char on full blood bladders,

shuddering at the convulsing something

that emerged to drop its last.

 

I wonder if ticks also landed here,

followed me over

to gain purchase; aim to thrive

be the last living thing left alive

 

in deconstructing boxes that engulf streets,

get scuffed beneath my sandalled feet,

surf the sandstorms, catch the wind;

open and dare me to peer within.

 

Maybe a future where the tick is King.

 

Autocrats, laying traps:

‘Tick this!’ they might declaim, ‘You’re insane!’

and they’d pass around the sheet again

until the non-conformity is detected –

a pedestrian out for a midnight stroll,

arrested by the unelected –

 

Exposing flesh, they burrow deep,

invent new rules to keep

or someone’s nobody spreads and creeps,

creates a million million spreadsheets –

 

For ticks.

 

So, in a practice room, not far away,

spoiling a noisy day before yesterday,

we’re scraping together this unruly tune,

leaving the rebellious door to the room

open.